


Dead Weight

by profanesouls



Series: Rebel Yell [1]
Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26198608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profanesouls/pseuds/profanesouls
Summary: A whine escaped her lips, mimicking the sound of a wounded animal as she closed in on herself, the agony in her shoulder blinding. Lost in a daze of pain, the smell of Vick’s Vitae pulled at her senses. Hunger burned in her gut; her throat parched. An overload of senses — pain, white hot, mixed with hunger, never ending — was all it took for Mickey’s composure to snap and for her walls to come crumbling down.Mickey reached out to the darkness and the Beast answered.
Relationships: Nines Rodriguez/Original Character(s), Nines Rodriguez/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Rebel Yell [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902790
Comments: 11
Kudos: 14





	Dead Weight

The smell of death and rot was inescapable. Between the rats, the rotting foundation, and, right, the _zombies_ , Mickey wondered how this building was still standing. When she entered the place, flyer in hand, looking for the Brotherhood of the Ninth Circle, she wasn’t sure what she expected from a doomsday cult’s headquarters; she just wished it smelled better.

When she first bounded up the stairs — and nearly fell through the half-rotted steps in the process — the sheer amount of mindless undead was enough to stop her in her tracks. She swore under her breath before rousing the Blood, the familiar sensation of her claws extending accompanied the sudden pang of hunger deep in her gut. The Beast whispered, tantalizing, some place just below her ear, and Mickey growled at her in response. 

Mickey’s claws cut easily through the cadavers that slowly made their way toward her. Dodging punches and snapping teeth, Mickey’s hand grabbed a handful of hair of one of the undead, using all her strength to send it flying over the destroyed couch and face first into the broken television set. No matter how many Mickey cut down, more just kept creeping their way down the hall. Her hands were slick with the diseased blood that tainted the undeads’ veins and she mused, idly, that it would take at least a week’s worth of showers before she felt clean again. Might have to burn her clothes for good measure, too.

When the zombies finally stopped coming, Mickey braced herself into a corner. She pulled out her phone, flipped it open in a quick motion, and typed a text message to Damsel, along with the address of the building.

_Need backup. ASAP._

The Last Round wasn’t too far away, so Mickey hoped that Damsel, and whatever backup the Anarchs could muster, would get there before she became a zombie’s dinner. 

As she made her way back out into the hallway, she flexed her fingers, claws still slick with undead blood. Mickey snarled in disgust, but steadily moved down the hall, checking each room for any lingering undead. The warehouse was a complete wreck, with gaping holes in the floors and ceilings. Deftly, Mickey lowered herself through one of the holes in the floor, making her way down to what she hoped was the leader’s den. 

As her footsteps echoed down the hall of the second floor, more groans of undead followed. _Jesus_ , Mickey thought, _how many of these things are there_? She began her dance again, all sharp claws and fangs. The cadavers were easy to cut through; their bodies soft from decay and rot. For each one she cut down, Mickey felt a pang of something in her chest — regret, maybe? Guilt? With a hiss, Mickey attempted to shake those thoughts away; they were dead, there wasn’t much she could do for them now besides put them out of their misery. 

At least that’s what she told herself. 

By the time she cleared the second floor, Mickey’s stamina had started to deplete. Though she didn’t need to breathe, her chest heaved as she leaned against a dirty wall. In a quick motion, Mickey shrugged off her jacket, which was now covered in grime, blood, and God knew what else. Down the hall, Mickey caught sight of a pair of wooden double doors. Seemed like a good place as any for the cult leader to be hiding, she assumed. 

Mickey didn’t know who the leader of the Brotherhood was, but she did know he wouldn’t go down without a fight. Her diplomacy skills were severely lacking, so there was no way in Hell she was going to be able to talk herself out of this. Mickey wondered, vaguely, how much fight she had left in her after taking down all those zombies. In an attempt to ease her worries, Mickey took a deep breath, rousing the Blood to fuel her muscles with the strength she would need to take the cult leader down. In response, Mickey felt the scratching of the Beast’s fangs in her chest, that dull ache of hunger growing ever sharper in her gut. 

_Come on_ , the Beast growled, her voice coming from somewhere behind Mickey’s shoulder. _You’re so tired. Look at you, you can barely stand up. Let me out, Michelle. Let me help you_. 

The expletive that Mickey snarled in response sounded more animalistic than anything human. She shoved herself away from the wall, making a direct line to the double-doors to finish this. In record time she reached the door, her foot connecting with the rotted wood, sending the door flying off its hinges. Her eyes instantly spotted a handful of cadavers lingering around the room, their limbs heavy, the same moaning and groaning coming from their decaying vocal cords. 

“Ah! Welcome, sister. I see you have been enlightened!” 

A man, shirtless and disheveled, his mouth stained with blood, called out as soon as Mickey forcefully entered the room. An empty ballroom, if Mickey had to guess, just as dilapidated as the rest of the warehouse. Mickey decided to approach quietly, her movements almost feline in nature, eyes zeroed in on the man as if he were prey. 

“Are you searching for something? Do you seek the truth? You’ve come to the right place, sister. We’ve got more truth here than we can handle,” the end of the man’s sentences was punctuated with a string of guttural coughs. Mickey’s lip curled back in disgust, her eyes darting from him to the cadavers that hadn’t seemed to notice her yet. 

“Who the hell are you?” Mickey asked, her voice carrying across the large distance between the two. Even so, the undead continued to shuffle about, seemingly unaware or uninterested. 

“They call me Bishop Vick,” he said, introducing himself, “Shepherd of the Damned, your midnight guide through our last days on Earth. Do you feel it, sister? The curtain being drawn back at last, drawn back by my hand, by the Brotherhood of the Ninth Circle!” 

Mickey’s brows furrowed, “Last days on Earth? You mean Gehenna?” 

“Gehenna? Judgement Day? The Apocalypse? Oh, again, sister, you are too indoctrinated into the antiquated beliefs of this material world. There is no rhyme or reason, no all-powerful and terrible gods who watch over their children,” Vick explained, his words punctuated and sure, as though he’d given this sermon countless times. 

“You talk of disease… what about the disease that you and I both carry, our flesh remade into nothing more than an abomination, feeding on our brothers and sisters like so many cattle? What god watched over me when that demon tore into my neck and made me into this monster you see before you?” 

Another pesky pang of guilt twisted in Mickey’s gut. She recognized the bitterness in Vick’s voice, it was the same bitterness she carried with her; the shared frustration and anger at the circumstances of unlife. What happened to them wasn’t fair. They were thrust into this mean existence, struggling to find a place within the endless cycle of life and death.

Bishop Vick continued, “No, sister. There is no god who would tolerate such a thing. And so, I have _become_ god, and the diseases I carry to the masses will bring about an end of my own making, until we have all journeyed below into the Ninth Circle.” 

“You talk too much,” Mickey grumbled, still slowly approaching the bishop. The Beast snapped her fangs, impatient, and it was getting harder and harder for Mickey to ignore her demands. 

“I understand your feelings about being a vampire,” she called, trying not to cringe at her poor attempt at negotiation, “but this isn’t the way to deal with it.” 

The bishop scoffed, jumping down from the stage in a swift motion. He was fast, Mickey noticed, supernaturally so. He continued his speech, unperturbed, “The time for words has come and gone, my sister. You and I will take those last steps together, and see what truth lies behind the curtain. Let the night fall forever on this cursed earth, and let the fruits of my labor bring a long and bloody harvest!” 

The Beast raised her hackles in anticipation as both kindred bared their fangs and lunged. 

* * *

“Oh, _shit_.” 

Nines raised a brow at Damsel’s exclamation. It wasn’t peculiar for her to suddenly shout a string of expletives, each one punctuated with typical Brujah fire, but he noticed the way her fingers tightly gripped the phone in her hand and the way her brows pinched together in apprehension instead of righteous anger. 

“Somethin’ wrong?” He asked, arms crossed over his chest. 

“It’s Mickey,” Damsel explained, which caused Nines’ eyebrow to raise further. “Had her looking into the plague-bearer shit for us. She says she needs backup. Building isn’t too far from here; I can just send some of our boys down there to see what’s up.” 

Damsel tore her gaze from her phone’s screen then, but only found Nines’ stoic, unreadable expression in response. 

“You said it’s not far?” Nines asked and Damsel nodded, eyes narrowing slightly. She knew what Nines was going to say before he even said it, but decided to keep her mouth shut for once. 

“Grab a couple of our boys then let’s go,” Nines ordered, each word punctuated with the resonance of leadership. He made sure his pistol was strapped to his hip before bounding down the stairs to the first floor of the Last Round, Damsel hot in his heels. 

“How many times are you gonna rush in and save her ass, huh?” Damsel muttered before snapping a command toward the bar, two more Anarchs bringing up the rear as they reached the door. Nines was greeted with the cool night air, but he didn’t stop to enjoy the scenery, or to dignify Damsel with a reply to her question. 

She scoffed, but said nothing, leading the pack of Anarchs to the address Mickey sent her. Damsel’s eyes instantly recognized the symbol painted on the brick wall — the same one from the flyer. The place looked unassuming, just another abandoned building waiting to be torn down. When the Anarchs reached the entrance, Nines didn’t waste any time getting inside. 

The man at the front desk was barely able to get a word out, unable to ask the group if they, too, had been enlightened, before Damsel barked out an order for one of the Anarchs to stay put to watch the entrance. She, Nines, and the other tagalong entered the building proper, moving through the lobby and crumbling hallways with practiced synchronization. Bodies were littered throughout, their rotting stench overpowering, and the kindred all appreciated the fact that they didn’t need to breathe. 

Nines’ calculating eyes swept the area, noting the path of destruction. He sidestepped a number of limbs, checked the corners, but found nothing and no one on the entry floor. The wood beneath his boots creaked with each step as he ascended the steps, pistol in hand. He barely registered Damsel’s voice as she ordered the other Anarch to watch the steps, his gaze zeroing in on one of the discarded, undead corpses at the start of the hall. 

He knelt down, examining the body closely. Jagged claw marks tore through its naked torso, coagulated blood coating the wall behind it. The claw marks were deep, having cut through atrophic tissue. He heard Damsel approach from behind him.

“Jesus fuck, this place is a horror show,” Damsel exclaimed, upper lip curled back in disgust. “You got somethin’?”

“Claw marks,” Nines stated, returning to his full height. The two Brujah shared a knowing look, aware of exactly who’s claws tore that body to shreds. 

“Guess she went this way. Better find her before she does somethin’ stupid, like get herself killed,” Damsel moved to head further down the hall, but Nines reached out an arm to block her path. 

“No, you check the floors to see if any more of these things are hangin’ around, we don’t need ‘em gettin’ loose on the streets,” Nines ordered, mouth set in a hard line. 

Damsel opened her mouth to object, but was interrupted by the sound of a ringing gunshot. It sounded close, probably from down the hall, if Nines had to guess. Damsel growled out another vulgar expletive, but nodded quickly, “Fuck, alright, go play the hero, I’ll make sure none of these freaks of nature live to see the sunrise.” 

Without another word, Nines turned on his heel, heading to where he thought the sound of the gunshot originated from. The hallways twisted and turned, each one as decayed and the last. More bodies littered the ground, most with missing limbs and decorated with claw marks. It was grotesque — a Masquerade violation waiting to happen — and Nines made a note to remember to bring some more boys down here for cleanup duty once they were through. 

As he made his way down the hall, a flash of red caught his eye. He stopped, realizing that it was a jacket discarded on the ground. It was covered in blood — at least, what he hoped was blood — and, frankly, it smelled like a dead body. Nines recognized the coat, though. Mickey had worn it when she first came to the Last Round after he invited her down there the other night when they had their first face to face conversation. He gave her the usual speech he told all the new blood, even promised to give her a few tips on hand-to-hand combat if she was serious about it. 

He still wasn’t sure what to make of her. She was capable, he could tell that much, but guarded. They were similar in that way, kept their cards close to their chests. They danced around the other, both trying to size the other up. 

Nines was forced out of his reverie at the sound of another gunshot, this one much closer. His head whipped around toward the sound, his feet carrying him down the hall at a quick speed. The Blood sang in his ears as he harnessed his supernatural speed, reaching a pair of broken double doors in seconds. 

* * *

A gunshot followed by a snarl of pain echoed through the ballroom, Mickey’s body thrown backwards as the shotgun shell tore through her shoulder. Her back hit the floor hard and she tumbled backwards, each impact sending a flare of white-hot pain through her shoulder and down her spine. Vitae dripped down her arm, the smell of it filling the air and mingling with the stench of death. 

Mickey dove behind an upturned table, bracing her back against it and ducking. She could hear Bishop Vick reloading, but his movements were slower, lazy, like he was toying with her. Mickey swore, trying to force herself to think of anything but the agony in her shoulder. Her fangs bit into her lower lip as she clenched her jaw tight, hissing through her teeth in pain. 

The Beast laughed. She could hear her fucking _laughing_ at her somewhere in the darkness. Her composure was starting to slip, the walls she carefully constructed threatening to collapse. She barely heard the footsteps round the corner before she dove out of the way again, nimbly dodging another shot from Vick’s shotgun. The shell exploded into the wooden floor, sending splinters flying where Mickey had just been sitting. 

Mickey used the opportunity to propel herself forward, pivoting on her heel and lunging for Vick’s back. She leapt, latching herself onto his back, legs wrapped around his waist, claws clinging for dear life into the flesh of his neck. Vick let out a monstrous roar, his body jerking this way and that in an attempt to throw Mickey loose. Her claws dug deep in his neck, one hand over his jugular, the other digging painfully into his shoulder. His elbow slammed into her stomach once, then twice, and Mickey cried out as she felt ribs snap beneath the impact. 

Yet still, she held on. 

Vick stumbled backwards; his steps purposeful as he aimed for the nearest wall. It was too late before Mickey realized his plan of action. Before she could tear her claws free, Vick slammed her against the wall with the full force of his dead weight. The plaster broke from the impact, but the wall remained solid. A cry of agony tore free from Mickey’s throat as her wounded shoulder hit the wall, her grip on Vick loosening before she hit the ground in a heap. 

In a blink, Vick was across the room, his own Vitae dripping down his chest from where Mickey’s claws shredded his neck. A whine escaped Mickey’s lips, mimicking the sound of a wounded animal as she closed in on herself, the agony in her shoulder blinding. 

Lost in a daze of pain, the smell of Vick’s Vitae pulled at her senses. Hunger burned in her gut; her throat parched. An overload of senses — pain, white hot, mixed with hunger, never ending — was all it took for Mickey’s composure to snap and those walls came crumbling down. 

Mickey reached out to the darkness and the Beast answered. 

The Beast sat on her haunches; fangs bared in a snarl. Her claws dug into the wooden floor; hackles raised. Her eyes — supernaturally yellow, glowing, monstrous — zeroed in on Vick, who was braced against the edge of the stage. He had one hand pressed against the wound on his neck, the Vitae flowing between his fingers from the aggravated wound. The Beast breathed in deep, the scent of Vick’s Vitae overwhelming, but she knew it was toxic; if she dared take a sip, they’d put her down next, and the Beast had an excellent sense of self-preservation.

So, she would just have to settle with sending him to the Final Death. 

The Beast pounced like a jungle cat, claws and fangs extended. Their broken bodies collided together, a mass of blood and broken bones. Vick was fast, but the Beast was faster — and stronger, she gloated — as she pinned Vick’s body beneath her own. He tried to dodge, tried to parry, tried to shove the Beast off, but his efforts were for naught. The Beast’s claws slashed across his face, his chest, his neck, any part of him the Beast touch. 

The Beast didn’t notice when he stopped fighting back, when his body fell into torpor. She also didn’t notice when a new figure entered the room, a pistol aimed and at the ready. It was only when the figure fired off a warning shot, the bullet whirling past the back of her head, did the Beast stop, claw raised in the air, dripping with the Vitae of the fallen Bishop. 

The Beast locked eyes with Nines Rodriguez. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it, his face expertly devoid of emotion. The gun was aimed at the Beast and she growled, remembering what happened the last time she was shot. The wound still ached in her shoulder and she knew she wouldn’t be able to take another hit like that. 

She moved back, crawling on all fours and hands slick with blood, as Nines approached, finger raised over the trigger. He recognized the Beast; recognized the carnage something like that could muster. Nines knew what he needed to do — no one rampaged like this in his territory. 

Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger, not when she looked like a wounded animal backed into a corner. He noticed the nasty wound on her shoulder and the amount of Vitae that stained the front of her shirt. 

The Beast was in the corner now, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Fangs bared; claws dug into the faded wallpaper. Her chest rose and fell with each unnecessary, labored breath. Nines kept the gun raised as he approached her, his aim steady and icy gaze unnerving. 

“I know you’re in there, Mickey,” he said, addressing her by name. 

Something shifted in the Beast’s gaze then. A tilt of her head, the movement reminiscent of something feline, her yellowed gaze narrowed in suspicion. 

Nines continued, “it’s over. You got him,” he paused, indicating Vick, his body beaten to a pulp and torn to shreds. Nines noted the brutality in the kill, but tore his gaze from the torpor-bound kindred and back to Mickey. 

When he looked back at her, he was met with her familiar steely gaze. The Beast released her claws from Mickey and the young kindred slumped to the ground, the extra adrenaline from the Beast leaving with her. Her palms slammed against the ground, her claws and fangs retracting. She was covered in Vitae, both her own and Vick’s, her shoulder ached something fierce, and the ever present Hunger churned low in her gut. 

Something burned stronger in her stomach, though, and Mickey realized it was shame. 

She moved to stand on shaky legs, her Vitae starved muscles screaming in protest. Nines lowered his gun and returned it to the holster on his belt. Mickey found herself unable to meet his gaze, her eyes locked firmly on the body of Bishop Vick. 

Nines followed her line of sight, his expression cool as he said, “We’ll take care of him.” 

Mickey snapped her eyes toward him, expecting to see an expression of hate, of disgust even, but found — she didn’t want to think about what she found in the depths of his icy gaze, it was an emotion she didn’t deserve. 

Instead, she nodded wordlessly, unable to trust her own voice. She didn’t have to sit in silence for long, though, before Damsel burst through the door, all red-hot, righteous fury. 

“Christ, what the fuck happened to you?” Damsel asked, gesturing to Mickey’s broken form. 

“Shotgun,” Mickey replied, voice hoarse. 

Nines kept his eyes on Mickey, but spoke to Damsel when he said, “Anymore of ‘em?” 

“Nah. Couple of stragglers, but I wasted ‘em,” Damsel replied as she straightened her beret back into place. She paused, looking at Mickey, and she felt the mask of den mother sliding into place as she asked, “Shit, Mick, you gonna be okay? That asshole almost killed you.” 

Mickey frowned, her gaze locked on Nines’s, the knowledge of what she did a shared secret between the two of them. “Maybe he should have.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for taking the time to read my work! this is my first venture into vtmb fic, so here's hoping this isn't a #deadfandom ☠️. want to learn more about mickey? follow me on tumblr (chloefrazer)! i have more fics planned featuring mickey & nines, so if you enjoyed my writing, please feel let me know! ଘ(੭ˊ꒳ˋ)੭♡


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